Home Is Just another Word for You
by Alexiah Rose
Summary: What if Assumpta went to open that wine bar in Dublin? Starts in the episode 'Chinese Whispers'
1. Chapter 1

**Home Is Just another Word for You**

**Chapter One**

Sighing, Assumpta flopped down onto the chair in front of her mother's vanity table. She rested her head on her right hand and contemplated her reflection. Maybe she was just tired from dealing with the bursting pipes and the 'Revenue' men, but she couldn't help thinking that she looked... older. She knew, of course, that twenty-four was far from old, but she had supposedly been an adult for six years now, and what had she to show for it? A couple of dozen crates of bootleg beer and a group of eccentric individuals who fell somewhere between the categories of 'customer' and 'friend'.

An uproar of laughter filtered in through the half-open bedroom door. The party downstairs had livened up considerably after Siobhan's welcome news about the two mysterious men, much to Niamh's gratification.

Now _Niamh_ was doing adulthood right. A whole year younger than Assumpta, and she was married _and_ pregnant. Hell, Assumpta thought, when her own mother was twenty-four, she already had a three-and-a-half year old child thundering about the place, terrorising the customers.

It's not that Assumpta was desperate to procreate; the whole idea of playing incubator to a human being for nine months still freaked her out considerably. But she wanted something real, something more. And she was hardly likely to find it in Ballykea, was she?

'_You can find it anywhere,' _echoed Peter's words from earlier that evening.

'Oh, shut up,' she said aloud, shaking her head as if to force him out.

Her stomach twisted with a feeling uncomfortably like guilt as she remembered their conversation from earlier that day. He'd looked so vulnerable when he asked her if she was really leaving, like a single word of confirmation might shatter him completely. And he was so indignant at not being told about it first. Maybe it made him feel like he wasn't important to her. But what was she supposed to do? Talk it over with him privately? Break it to him gently? That would be like acknowledging the 'something' between them, and they'd always had a silent agreement to pretend that the 'something' wasn't there...

But Peter had acknowledged the 'something'; he'd broken the rule. He'd stood there in her kitchen and looked into her face and declared that he cared about her. Whatever that meant. And she'd just stood staring at him like an idiot because what do you say to that? And he'd kept blabbering on in that ridiculous way of his. _'I just thought that we were...' _

"Were what?"

That's what she should have said.

"You thought that we were _what?_ What are we, Peter? What can we ever be?_"_

She rubbed her temples. Trying to figure Peter out always gave her a headache. It would all be so simple if it weren't for him. It would be easy to leave. But would she want to? Wasn't he at least part of the reason she wanted to leave? And wasn't he most of the reason she wanted to stay?

Frustrated by her own pointless musings, Assumpta closed her eyes. When again she opened them into the mirror, she jumped about five feet into the air.

'_God,_ Peter!' she exclaimed, clutching her chest as she locked eyes with his reflection. 'You scared me half to death.'

But the figure in the mirror neither moved nor spoke; he stood frozen in her bedroom doorway, pale of face and looking like a rabbit caught in headlights.

'Peter?' Assumpta furrowed her brow in concern.

Peter fidgeted with his hands and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He opened and closed his mouth several times as his eyes darted around the room in search of words. Finally, he caught Assumpta's eye in the glass, and spoke in a strangled, panicked tremor.

'Don't go.'

Assumpta immediately felt her chest tighten. Whipping her head around, she looked him directly in the eyes.

'What?' she breathed, rising to her feet.

Suddenly gaining confidence, Peter crossed the room until he was standing mere centimetres away. Looking down into Assumpta's face, he drew breath and repeated himself with more certainty.

'Don't go.'

Confounded, Assumpta dropped her gaze to his chest, shaking her head slowly.

'_Assumpta,'_ Peter pleaded as he lifted his hand to her cheek, causing her to look up again.

Regarding one another with bare honest emotion, they were now closer to one another, and closer to the truth, than they'd ever been before. They felt the 'something' rise up to engulf them at last, and neither had the strength nor the will to fight it. In the absence of rational thought, Assumpta's heart stepped in to instruct her mouth, and she heard herself whisper,

'Give me a reason to stay.'

She inhaled sharply as Peter moved his right hand from her cheek into her hair, and his left came to rest on her waist. Peter's eyes were nervous, but his movements were sure as he pulled her close to him. Assumpta placed her hand tentatively on his chest, gently stroking her middle finger over his heart. Before she knew what was happening, his lips covered hers, soft and pure. She closed her eyes and moved to pull him closer, but their much-dreamed-of kiss had finished before it started. Assumpta heard Peter gasp and opened her eyes to find him on the opposite side of the room, his hand clasped over his lips as if he'd been burnt. Tears visibly welling in his eyes, he shot her a look that was half terror, half apology, and he bolted through the door.

Assumpta sank down onto her bed as an exhausted numbness washed over her.

It was finished.

The waiting and wondering were finally over. She and Peter had had their chance, their moment of truth, their one opportunity to find out whether their 'something' would ever amount to anything. And they'd come close; for a moment there, she'd honestly believed that he'd chosen her. The feeling of being pulled into a kiss by Peter had been one of unparalleled ecstasy, but then... Father Clifford had reared his pious head. He'd folded, crumbled retreated. And Assumpta was disappointed; she was crushed.

But she wasn't surprised.

No, she thought as she pulled the suitcase out from under the bed, she wasn't even a tiny bit surprised.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Assumpta had vacated the seat beside him a good twenty minutes ago, and no one had felt moved to take her place. Many in the room smiled at him; some dropped a casual greeting as they wandered past, but mostly Peter was left to his silent observation of Niamh's impromptu celebration. He smiled warmly as he watched his parishioners. He watched couples banter with one another, friends squabble over rounds of drinks, families bicker over who was responsible for the pile of dirty dishes at home. He watched a secret smile spread over Niamh's face as Ambrose whispered in her ear. It gladdened his heart to see these people living their lives together, but he knew he watched it all as an outsider.

It's part and parcel, comes with the job – "Goes with the territory," Assumpta would say. A priest is never _really_ part of the community. He is always a third party, a (usually) welcome observer responsible for keeping everybody in line. People treat him well, people are kind and hospitable, but no one ever truly connects with him. Peter knew that all too well. No one was ever completely, one hundred per cent real with him.

No one, he realised, except for her.

She was the only one who didn't give a damn about his collar. She was the only one who didn't censor herself in his presence – quite the opposite, actually. She loved to test him, to push him to his limits. She spoke to him with a lack of respect for his vocation that would have been downright offensive coming from anyone else. But with Assumpta... there was an air of intimacy about it. She was playing with him, baiting him, gauging his reaction. And – let's be honest – he couldn't get enough. He considered it an honour that, after all this time, she still deemed him a worthy sparring partner.

And in those moments, those rare but real moments, when she treated him with gentle kindness, he knew that it wasn't because of his collar, but_ in spite of it_, that she cared. That was something that he'd never known before. That's what made this place feel like home.

A nervous nausea welled in his stomach as he felt himself lose control of his emotions. A sudden panic set in, hitting him like a bucket of cold water to the face.

_I can't let her go._

Peter immediately rebuked himself for allowing the thought to form itself into words. These ideas, these feelings, this atmosphere – it was too dangerous. He got to his feet. He had to leave, to get his head straight, to pray. He was sure that he headed towards the door of the pub, but he somehow ended up at the top of the stairs. Ashamed of his weakness, he turned back, but in doing so caught a glimpse through a half open bedroom door.

There she sat, her back to him, leaning over the vanity. She had a single flake of white paint in her hair, from where the ceiling had given way in the kitchen. Peter had no idea why, but that flake of paint made him want to break down and cry. His gaze drifted to her face, reflected in the mirror. She had her eyes closed and fingers to her temples.

_Why do you look so sad?_

As if she'd heard his thoughts, Assumpta opened her eyes and gave a start.

'_God,_ Peter! You scared me half to death.'

In silence, Peter floundered. He tried desperately to think of something to say – an explanation of why he was standing in her bedroom, a reason to excuse himself and get back to hiding from his problems. But then...

'Peter?'

She spoke gently, and lines of concern appeared on her forehead. She cocked her head to one side and her hair tumbled over her shoulder and her eyes anxiously sought his in the mirror, and his chest was gripped violently by the sudden realisation that he could never face another day without her.

'Don't go.'

* * *

Any reader of romantic fiction would have expected rain to be pouring down over the grey streets as the conflicted young curate fled temptation and stumbled desperately toward the lonely safety of his cottage. Alas, the night was fine, the streets brightly lit by the waning moon, the village's residents merry and gay, their laughter following Peter down the street. As soon as his door closed behind him, Peter collapsed against it, heaving, he felt, his first breath since leaving Assumpta's bedroom.

Assumpta's bedroom.

_Oh, God._

What had he done?

He didn't know whether he was more ashamed of betraying his vows or of leaving Assumpta standing there alone. God, what must she think of him? What must _God_ think of him? His cheeks burned as if branded by the mark of shame, and he wholeheartedly wished that the floor would swallow him up.

Only vaguely aware of the tears wetting his face, he staggered up the stairs and fell straight to his knees by the bed. He prayed long into the night, not relieving his conscience one little bit. He begged for wisdom, but he couldn't tell the voice of God from the voice of his own desires, and he was left more distressed than ever. Eventually he collapsed, face first and fully dressed, onto his bleak single bed.

* * *

No sooner had Peter's eyes shot open than he had to squeeze them shut against the morning sun. Groaning, he brought his cold hands to his face. He had never been so uncomfortable; a full priest's uniform was not the most luxurious of sleepwear choices. His shirt twisted awkwardly, his belt dug into his skin, and his shoes hung heavily over the edge of the bed. His eyes burned from inadequate sleep. Most painful of all, however, was the now-familiar contortion of his stomach when he remembered what had landed him in this state.

'Assumpta...' he moaned, as her hurt and confused face etched itself on his mind.

A sense of urgency overtook him, and he sat up so quickly that his head spun. He had to make sure she was okay. He glanced at the clock. Half nine; the pub would still be closed.

He walked quickly to Fitzgerald's. He took no time to plan what he would say. There was no point; when he stood face to face with Assumpta, everything always came out in moron anyway. The most he ventured was a silent prayer that he might somehow make her understand.

He'd pounded on the big blue door four times before it finally swung open.

'Assumpt – _Niamh?'_

'Morning, Father,' said Niamh, raising her eyebrows and folding her arms across her chest. 'You look like death warmed up.'

'Niamh, I need to speak to Assumpta.'

'What's wrong?' Her tone was more curious than concerned; she was kind-hearted, Niamh, but a sucker for gossip.

'Please, Niamh,' begged Peter, breathless.

'"Please, Niamh" what?'

'Where's _Assumpta?'_ he asked, growing frustrated.

'Oh...' Niamh shifted her weight awkwardly. 'She's gone.'


End file.
